A Good Man
by Everything-In-Focus-94
Summary: John disappears suddenly and people seem to think that he died in Afghanistan. Only Sherlock remembers him. What is going on? SLASH WARNING!  NOT FULL ON BUT NOT EXACTLY INNOCENT EITHER.


A Good Man

Sherlock surveyed the scene being played on the TV in front of him. 4 military men bearing a coffin on shoulders, a union jack spread over it.

There was a close up of one of the men's face. For all his military standing and pride, his lip was wobbling and the beginnings of tears were forming in his eyes. Realising the camera was on him, he wiped them away with his free hand, making his face go stony once more. Sherlock looked over at John who was sitting, legs folded beneath him, that same mixture of sadness and pride on his face. He stared down at the paper that was resting on his legs bearing the same front page news. Frank Dawson

The bugles began to play and the coffin was lowered into the waiting hearse. The camera's seemingly determined to catch the most emotional of the four men, zoomed into him once more. Another of the men gave a glare into the camera, moving the forth man out of the way and placing a consoling hand on his shaking shoulder. The man howled a silent howl, weeping and collapsing into a sobbing mess on the floor, head in hands, shoulders shaking violently. The three over men stared over at the camera, collecting the sobbing man in their arms and hurrying him away.

A news reader's face flew back into view. She had a stony faced expression, but a muscle was twitching in her cheek, resisting the urge to smile, clearly pleased at her camera's impromptu but satisfying capture of the man's reaction.

"Shocking images at the return of the soldier's body. His friend breaking down at the scene and had to be carried away by the other coffin bearers. This is what people had to say about Frank." She whispered no real emotion in her voice.

_"John Watson was good man."_

Sherlock's eyes flew up to meet the television screen. Instead of the dark haired young man from before, it showed the familiar sandy haired doctor. He looked to his right, when John had been sitting moments before. There was only an empty seat, no imprint, no indication that John had ever been there. The pillow that he'd always placed on his lap, hugging it as a child would hug a teddy bear as he sat watching the television was over in a chair on the far right. Sherlock looked down at the paper.

"Doctor John Watson, 36. Killed whilst saving a friend in Afghanistan" the headline screamed at him. That same picture of John, smiling and the camera and giving a mock salute. Sherlock had seen that photo before; the time when they had visited Harry's flat in a vain attempt to sober her up.

What had impressed Sherlock were the photos that Harry had taken, for all her shaking hands when she plugged in her phone, her hands were beautifully steady whenever she picked up a camera. John appeared to be the subject of most of them. Sherlock had even relented for a single snapped shot, his hand resting lightly on John's shoulder, an unsure smile on his face. Once again, he had been pleasantly surprised. Including every single forced school picture that decorated his mother's house, and every rolling eyed one that the press seemed to capture as he sighed through yet another of Lestrade's incorrect analysis's , it was the best photo that had ever been taken of him. Harry Watson, a drunken alcoholic, was exactly like her brother, able to see the beauty in others although she required a camera to see it.

And it was her who'd captured that photo of John, him laughing on the day he'd been given his doctorate and mock saluting with two fingers, he couldn't have been more than 19. It matched John, that mixture of humour and warmth, with his steely military determined mind perfectly. And it was that same picture that was now burning into his eyes.

Sherlock stood up, shaking his head in disbelief, dropping the newspaper.

"JOHN!" he called into the flat. There was silence only a slight thump from the room above. Sherlock dashed from the room sprinting up the stairs. He threw open Johns room his mouth dropping open. The room was empty, the bed stripped, nothing John-like about it. He walked in it blinking his eyes, hoping and praying that John's room would materialise before his eyes.

"No-but- he was there" he whispered. He flipped open his phone and searched through his messages, not a single message from John. Phonebook- nothing under John's name. He keyed in a familiar number and held it to his ear.

"Hello?" a quiet voice said picking up the receiver. She let out a loud sniff and let out a tiny whimper. She'd been crying.

"Harriet? Harriet Watson. Sister of John Watson?" he said. The woman stopped sniffing.

"Who is this? Is this the press again? Why can't you just leave us alone?" she screamed down the phone, Sherlock practically recoiled.

"No- no! I'm a friend of Johns. Sherlock Holmes" he shouted. The verbal tirade stopped.

"He never mentioned you" she whispered, her voice still unsure. Sherlock faltered.

"Harry.. we were very close. We're living together." He said, still not believing that he was having this conversation. He could practically hear her frowning down the phone.

"Are you in Afghanistan now? She asked her voice cautious.

"No but... Harry something is wrong here, I was just talking to him a minute ago and" "DON'T YOU DARE!" she screamed, interrupting him. Sherlock shook his head.

"Harry please listen to me, he's alive""LOOK MR HOLMES, WHOEVER THE HELL YOU ARE, MY BROTHER IS DEAD. DON'T YOU DARE TRY TO SAY OTHERWISE! MY HEART JUST CAN'T TAKE IT" she screamed, slamming the phone down on him. Sherlock stayed listening to the dialling tone for a few seconds, his eyes wide, shellshocked.

"No... no this isn't right" he whispered to himself. He began to pace back and forward, his shirt wrinkling from the movement and twisting. He reached for the phone, which somehow had appeared on his bed. He scrolled down pressing Lestrade's number. He held the phone to his ear , fingers crossed.

"Come on please remember." He muttered.

"Sherlock! What can I do you for?" a voice came down the phone that was defiantly not Lestrade's.

"Sally? Is that you." he asked, his mind racing with accusations.

"Yes... is it a crime to have my husband's phone?" she continued. Sherlock's mouth dropped open.

"Your, your husband?" he gaped. There was a silence on the phone.

"Sherlock... honey are you ok?" she asked, her voice full of genuine concern.

"Honey? Husband... what the-" he said as he hung up the phone. He threw it onto the bed, flopping down simultaneously his head resting on the bed in the room. The room seemed to go dark around him and he put his head on his knees. The phone began to ring again.

He could feel that he was crying, but no tears where coming from his eyes. He kept whispering John's name over and over, whimpering and hoping that he would walk through the door.

"JOHN!" he screamed in frustration, rocking on the floor. His whispers became shouts. He could hear John saying his name in his head. He screamed even louder trying to get his attention, his voice was becoming louder and louder, waves seemed to be crashing around the noise trying to block out John's voice. There was a tap on his cheek, Moriarty's face smiling as he punched Sherlock on the chin over and over again. No pain.

"SHERLOCK! COME ON SHERLOCK!" John's voice called in his head. Sherlock whimpered and shook his head against his knees.

"John where are you? Where are you?" he repeated over and over. There was still pressure on his face Moriarty's men where gripping him solidly around the chin. They were taunting him whispering John's name in his ear.

"JOHN!" he screamed one final time. His eyes flew open and he flung himself forward. His mouth was still open from screaming, his body and clothes drenched in a cold sweat, his chest rising and forward rapidly. Hands where on his face again, and he batted them away. They came back softer and kinder.

"Sherlock... are you ok?" His eyes opened once more at the voice. He wasn't even aware that he'd closed them again. John's concerned and confused face swam into view.

"John?" he whispered, shaking still. John nodded slowly.

"I heard you screaming... all the way from my room" he began. Sherlock's eyes flashed around the room. He was in the sitting room, apparently on the floor judging by the hard surface beneath him. John was kneeling over him and was looking at him with huge eyes. The man's face was the only thing that mattered to him.

Without even thinking it through, he grabbed John's head and pulled his mouth down onto his. John let out a slight "oof" of surprise but didn't resist. Instead he pulled Sherlock tighter, his body lying directly on top of his. Teeth clashed together and noses were bumped, the urgency of it all evident.

John tugged at Sherlock shirt, pulling it free of his trousers. Sherlock whimpered softly as John's cool fingers slid under his shirt, jumping a mile as they pressed against his prominent hip bone. John looked at him apologetically, his fingers travelling further up his stomach, other hand fiddling with the buttons, reflecting Sherlock's actions on John.

John leant forward and placed another kiss on Sherlock's lips. This time it was softer, less urgent more tender. His arms wrapped around Sherlock's naked chest, linking them behind his back.

"What the hell happened Sherlock?" John mumbled against Sherlock's lips. Sherlock pushed him backwards and looked at the flushed man before him, through dark glittering eyes.

"Bad dream John..." he whispered, running a hand through his hair, his eyes now flicking around the room. He seemed to be expecting the dream to come back. John clutched the shaking man to his chest.

"It's ok" he whispered, placing a soft tender kiss on the man's cheek. The man's shaking became more violent and tears were falling onto John's naked back. He rubbed a soothing hand on his back and held him tighter.

"Sherlock it couldn't have been that bad" he whispered into the mop of hair. Sherlock nodded, rubbing his eyes on John's shoulder.

"It was..." he sniffed like a little child. John pressed no longer, merely holding the man until he went back to sleep before picking him up in his arms and placing him back on the sofa. John surveyed the man, chest bare, hair mussed for a moment, before curling into the gap between him and the edge of the sofa. In the darkness Sherlock's eyes flicked, before placing an arm protectively over the others chest, a smile appeared on both of their sleepy faces as John's fingers reached up to entwine with his.


End file.
